Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(25)

Bobby didn't know whether to feel triumphant or vaguely ashamed. He'd put on a pair of khakis, a button-down shirt, and his best sports jacket for this occasion. He was doing his impression of a homicide detective, which probably only proved that even state troopers could watch too much TV.

Earlier in his career, six or seven years back, Bobby had debated making the transition from uniformed patrol officer to investigative detective. Uniformed officers were considered the grunts of the operation, the front-line troops even in an organization as elite as the state police. Detectives were smart; patrol officers, good at doing what they were told. Bobby had the brains, his sergeant had urged, why settle for driving a Crown Vic for the rest of his life?

Bobby had still been debating his options when he'd learned of an opening on the STOP team. He'd submitted his resumé and begun the rigorous selection process. He had to pass oral boards, prove proficiency with special weapons, and endure intense physical fitness requirements. Then came the special drills: scenarios involving swinging from ropes to see if the applicant was afraid of heights; scenarios involving a smoke machine to test how well the applicant functioned under extreme stress. They were tested with cold, tested with heat. Made to crawl through mud carrying eighty pounds of gear, required to hold a pose for up to three hours.

Always it was drilled into their heads: Tactical teams deployed anytime, anywhere. They could be called upon to enter any sort of situation and all kinds of terrain. You had to think fast on your feet, thrive under pressure, and be fearless. Survive the application process, and you received the honor of training four extra days a month while surrendering all your nights and weekends to be on call twenty-four seven. All this, for no additional income. Men joined the tactical team purely for the sake of pride. To be the best of the best. To know that as a team—and as an individual—you could handle anything.

Bobby'd survived the selection process. He'd won the open slot, and he'd never looked back. He was a good cop, serving with the best cops. At least that's what he'd thought until two days ago.

The receptionist was back, cheeks flushed, and breathless.

“Dr. Rocco will see you now.”

A toddler screeched a fresh round of protest from the waiting area. Bobby pushed gratefully through the connecting door.

He found Dr. Rocco sitting in a small office halfway down the hall. The desk was buried under heaps of files, and the walls were covered with children's drawings and immunization schedules. A few things struck Bobby at once. One, Dr. Rocco was younger than he'd pictured, late thirties to early forties. Two, the doctor was a lot more attractive than Bobby'd imagined: thick dark hair, trim athletic build, and an oozy sort of country-club charm. Three, Dr. Rocco obviously read the Boston Herald and knew exactly who Bobby was.

“I have some questions about Nathan Gagnon,” Bobby said.

Dr. Rocco didn't say anything at first. He was eyeing Bobby up and down. Wondering where Bobby got the gall to show his face in public? Preparing to cite doctor-patient confidentiality? Dr. Rocco finally glanced up again and Bobby saw something unexpected in the man's gaze: fear.

“Have a seat,” the pediatrician said at last. He gestured to a file-covered chair, then belatedly grabbed the stack of papers. “How can I help you?”

“I understand you're in charge of Nathan Gagnon's care,” Bobby said.

“For the past year, yes. Nathan was referred to me by another pediatrician, Dr. Wagner, when she failed to make progress on his care.”

“Nathan has an illness?”

“Officially, he's listed as FTT.”

“FTT?” Bobby asked. He took out a small spiral notebook and a pen.

“Failure to thrive. Basically, from birth, Nathan's been behind the curve in size, weight, and key developmental benchmarks. He's not developing in a ‘normal' manner.”

Bobby frowned, not sure he was getting it. “The boy's too small?”

“Well, that's one element. Nathan's height of thirty-four inches puts him in the lowest one percent for a four-year-old boy, and his weight—twenty-six pounds—doesn't make the curve at all. His condition, however, has to do with more than just size.”

“Explain.”

“From birth, Nathan has struggled with vomiting, diarrhea, and spiking fevers. He seems constantly malnourished—he's had rickets, his blood phosphate levels are too low, same with blood glucose levels. As I said before, he's lagged behind almost all traditional benchmarks for development—he didn't sit up until he was eleven months old, he didn't cut teeth until he was eighteen months old, and didn't walk until he was twenty-six months old. None of that is considered good. And then, in the past year, his condition appears to have worsened. He's had several attacks of acute pancreatitis as well as two bone fractures. He's failed to thrive.”

Bobby flipped a page in his notebook. “Let's talk about the bone fractures. Isn't it unusual for a four-year-old to have two broken bones in one year?”

“Not for a patient such as Nathan.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nathan suffers from hypophosphatemia—low phosphate. Combined with the rickets, his bones are unusually brittle and prone to fracture. For the record, he also bruises quite easily.”

Bobby looked up sharply. “Why do you say that?”